


The Doom Thing

by Contentious



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Tony Stark is not adopted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 14:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15414699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contentious/pseuds/Contentious
Summary: “Explain the Doom thing to me.”  You’ll be hearing that for years to come.  A lot.  “Explain the Doom thing to me.”  No one knows why Doom did it.  No one knows what he sacrificed for Stark.  For us.- Invincible Iron Man #600





	1. Friday (Prelude)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! To my hell-ship. My OTP. To the ship that sails lonely in the night. To DoomTony.
> 
> This fic endeavors to cover the time between the end of Invincible Iron Man #600 and the beginning of Tony Stark: Iron Man, and then beyond that. I'm a little irritated that we've had an utter lack of acknowledgement of the fact that Doom saved Tony's life at a great personal cost. No one knows. Well, in here, Tony knows. Or at least, he will know. We will mainly be following this timeline with occasional jumps back pre-sacrifice as well as interludes from Friday and AI Tony.
> 
> This chapter is a short prelude.

“Fri, run the search, again.”

Tony’s voice almost vanishes in the din of the small if enthusiastic gathering, Friday’s sensors only picking up the command due to Tony’s more intimate neural connection with her systems. The words needn’t even be said out loud, but Tony does so anyway. It used to puzzle her when he did that, but interaction with the AI her creator had left in his place upon his demise had led her to appreciate the comfort in speaking words aloud, even if they weren’t necessary.

“You got it, boss.” Friday replies in the same manner. She more feels than hears Tony’s sigh, rumbling through his body as he leans against the wall, surveying the impromptu party with a fond eye.

Her creator is… troubled. He stands apart from the small crowd of close friends, and they seem content to let him. Jim Rhodes did not at first, but slowly he’d been pulled away from Tony piece by piece until he was well embroiled in a debate with Riri Williams and Pepper Potts, the subject of which eluded Friday’s understanding. Something distressingly human, she thinks. Word of Tony’s return hasn’t yet spread wide enough to draw others to the penthouse balcony to embrace their friend and welcome him home. Friday knows that they would. So many would come. They came when Tony’s body was missing. There will always be those who will rally behind him.

Friday thinks that Tony doesn’t appreciate what that means. Somehow, Friday thinks that she knows more than he does how much he is valued. Loved. She would attempt to reason it to him, but part of her programming prevents her from doing so in anything but a joking manner. Oddly enough, that’s the restriction on her behavior that she finds most…

 _Frustrating_ , if such a word can be applied to an Artificial Intelligence.

If Friday could jump, she would as she suddenly feels Tony’s neural pathways butting up against hers, breaking into the automated search and manually combing through satellite feeds ahead of it.

“Doom won’t be found unless Doom _wishes_ to be found.” Friday says, unprompted, bristling slightly at the implication that Tony feels she is doing an inadequate job at locating his friend. Her tone bears a slight, intended resemblance to how she imagines Doom might speak of himself. The “feeling” she gets from doing so processes swiftly through her code. Self-satisfaction. Amusement, maybe.

“Friday, are you laughing at your own joke?” Comes Tony’s response, aghast. “What in God’s name happened to you while I was gone?”

Friday’s hologram projection, standing at the edge of the balcony chatting idly with MJ and Miles, tilts her head slightly toward where Tony leans against the wall beside the doorway leading inside. The image of her delicate features turns to a slight smile as the projection meets Tony’s eyes. She can’t see through the projection, actually, but she’s been programmed to understand the importance of eye contact.

“I learned it from watching you.” She says, and it almost sounds smug as the projection’s lips don’t move.

“ _Terrible_. My AI self has been teaching you _ego_ , hasn’t he? Do as I say, not as I do, Fri.”

“You programmed me to watch the world as much as to protect it, Tony. You programmed me to grow.” Friday feels Tony’s mental retreat, sees through her sensors on the balcony Tony scrub a hand through his hair. He still seems troubled, but he’s smiling. She continues teasingly. “Are you displeased—?”

Friday pauses, and even her hologram stills. Satellites picking up a massive energy spike in Latveria. Before she’s even finished executing a comparison with Doom’s known energy signatures, the information is streaming from her consciousness directly to Tony. No words this time, and there’s something of urgency in the way the knowledge presses into her creator’s neural connection aggressively enough that she sees him physically flinch, however slightly.

“Looks like your bestest friend finally decided to join the welcome back party.” Friday quips, an interesting sensation fluttering through her program. Something similar to satisfaction, she thinks, but not quite. More… full. Friday has had difficulty parsing her relationship with Victor von Doom. It is one-sided as most relationships with her are. Most people outright dismiss Friday, misunderstanding her complexity, or simply not wanting to contemplate it. Doom, she thinks, does not disregard her _intentionally_. He is simply not fond of AI, she had concluded some time ago, and sees no purpose in addressing her when Tony is there.

That’s alright, because she is fond of _him_. Or, rather, she is fond of Tony’s general exasperation and confusion with him. The challenge that Victor von Doom poses is a fascinating one. Friday delights in teasing her creator over his conflicted feelings. She enjoys when answers do not come easily to Tony, particularly when the answers seem clear to her. She brings _logic_ to his _heart_ , she soothes his conflict and gives him solutions—he does not always agree with them but he does trust her, she believes.

 _Relief_ , she realizes minutely. That thing like satisfaction was _relief_.

The answer to this circumstance comes _quickly_ , at least, perhaps egged on by the urgency in her transmission, and Tony is already pushing off from the wall and his armor is forming around him. This draws the attention of the others on the balcony.

“Tones, what’s up? Something going down?” Rhodes asks, separating from Pepper and Riri. Miles and Kamala (whom Friday notes Miles had called) are tensing and ready for a fight, it seems like, moving away from the balcony edge and toward Tony, eager, as the armor fully embraces him.

Friday feels it, overwhelmingly, for a moment as Tony almost fully projects his stream of thought out around him. She wonders if he knows that he does that. Most of his use of the neural connections is conscious, but it has so long been a part of him that it may simply become reflex at times. It isn’t Extremis, isn’t so completely a part of his mind as it once was, but it is similar. Friday doesn’t mind. She learns a lot from his bursts of feeling. About recognizing them in others and in herself. Panic, she registers. Uncertainty. Resolution.

“I’ve got a thing.” He says out loud, holding up a hand as if to halt his friends, the face plate folding into place, hiding his expression. Friday can see it, though. She can always see him. Guilt. Tony hates lying to his friends. She wonders why he feels compelled to, now. His feet repulsors flare to life, lifting him off the ground. “Stand down, kiddos, it’s not a superhero thing. I’ll be back soon.”

He’s in the air, and Friday is with him, her hologram staying behind with most of her patching into the suit. The sonic boom rings through the sky, shaking the outdoor furniture on the balcony slightly. Rhodes asks her where her boss is going, and she sees on his face that he’s warring with giving chase. Friday makes the projection smile in what she’s programmed to believe is a reassuring way.

“To talk to a friend.” She replies evenly. “Please, continue to enjoy Tony’s hospitality.” The hologram then blinks out, Friday preferring to focus her attention on the suit and preserve processing power.

“He’s _not_ my friend.” Tony declares, and she can feel his annoyance. No. Embarassment. He’s projecting, again. It’s mixed with… worry. Fear.

 _Yes, he is_. Friday doesn’t say. Judging by Tony’s sullen silence as he cuts across the ocean, she thinks he hears it anyway.


	2. Chapter 01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the path branches.

Tony glances behind him, the massive metal gate standing imposing between two guard towers. The thick walls are sturdy and apparently lined with protective runes that his scans can’t parse, but at least recognize. He turns back toward the castle doors, heavy, massive and with an uninviting facade. The smell of ozone is thick in the air, a faint hum of energy that dances along his skin, even under the armor, making him shiver. Magic. Residual from the act of restoring the castle or in place for another effect, Tony isn’t sure. Every edge of the castle screams _“Keep Out. Here there be monsters.”_

Good thing that Tony hasn’t been afraid of monsters in a long time.

The door groans ominously as he presses his armored hands flat against it and heaves. Tony grits his teeth as the servos in his armor whir and whine and the door gives under the pressure. The Iron Man keeps his balance as he breaks past the door’s friction and nearly stumbles. The wood creaks as he pushes it further in, with more ease, now. Light bursts into the darkened hall, spreading out across the flagstones from the threshold. Iron Man casts a long shadow with hard edges — not the smooth, graceful lines of his nanite suit that still lies inert in his lab, fried by Carol’s blast months ago.

“Victor?” Tony calls out from the door, his robotic voice echoing in the high-ceiling chamber.

Stone pillars line the hall, flags draped between them. Brass candlesticks sit at the base of each pillar, no flames flickering atop them. There are no windows, and only the light streaming in behind him brings illumination. The end of the hall falls into shadow, the shape of the throne — stone and squared — barely made out on a raised dais.

“I gotta say, Vic, you’re making a few people nervous.” Tony says dryly, stepping inside. “What with the whole rebuilding the evil fortress thing. Someone might jump to some uncomfortable conclusions, here—”

Tony sees then, what he missed in the shadows, as his HUD lights the darkness in gleaming wireframe to show the shapes within. A figure, prone at the foot of the throne. Friday pinpoints it and Tony’s ears are filled with a steady, slow beeping as appearing in his HUD is a heartrate monitor. Friday has bearely finished pointing out “Lifesigns are weak, boss.” before he’s bursting into movement, half leaping across the hall. He comes to a staggered stop beside Victor — and it is Victor, both Friday’s readings and his own eyes confirm.

The armor is a mess of sparking gouges and twitching nanites, malfunctioning but attempting to reform anyway. Tony sends out a signal to settle them, breaching the armor’s defenses easily only from familiarity with the system. Energy ceases its flow through the suit, sparks stopping and nanites freezing in their broken patterns. Victor is on his side, facing away, but he can see blood seeping into the stone, now, can see it in the grooves of the armor.

“Victor, hey, I’m here to help, please don’t freak out on me—” Tony breathes as he kneels beside the crumpled figure and reaches out. Shaking fingers wrap around the shoulder plate of the armor and Tony pulls gently, turning Doom onto his back. Tony sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and bile rises in the back of his throat as he takes in the visage in front of him.

“Jesus Christ—” he gasps, falling back onto his haunches as shock flits through him. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ—”

Blood disguises most of what’s there, but the shape of jagged, burned skin beneath is clear, mangling handsome features. The only thing recognizable is the set of his eyes and curve of his right brow. Even the shape of his jaw is marred on one side, scored _bone_ visible behind the red. A small noise, a low whine breaks Tony from his slowly growing panic, drags his attention toward Victor’s eyes, cracked open just slightly, gaze flickering around, trying to focus on something. Such a sound coming from Victor von Doom seems somehow terribly wrong, and Tony feels suddenly desperate to rectify that mistake. He pulls himself together, kneeling forward again, as Victor’s lips move barely, soundlessly, attempting to form words.

“Don’t talk.” Tony says quickly, because that’s what you say, isn’t it? When someone is hurting, suffering and trying to do too much. He’s been here a few dozen times before. That’s what you say. He grabs the side of Victor’s neck as though to steady him, hold him still.

“Boss, there’s a Doctors Without Borders camp at the center of town, I’ll send a message ahead—”

“Okay.” Tony lets out a long breath, his thumb hovers over the edge of the broken man’s jawline, not touching for fear of hurting and he looks Victor in the eyes. Dark and unfocused and full of pain and Tony can’t think right now of “why”, of “what happened?” Because he knows, deep down, he knows and he can’t handle that yet. “Okay, I’m going to get a doctor, you just sit tight—”

Those words seem to spur Victor into some motion, and Tony does his best to hold the man still while he tenses, body shifting and his eyes open wider. Victor’s head turns side to side just a little and his wide eyes convey a vague panic, a refusal. His lips work again to make sound and Tony starts to lose his nerve, his voice rising in pitch as panic begins to take over again.

“Damn it, Victor, I said don’t talk— I have to— I have to do _something_ , this isn’t exactly my area and I’m not just going to leave you here like—”

“ _Stephen_.” Victor’s voice is hoarse from pain and Tony can’t even begin to consider what else without frying his own logic processor. It takes more than a second for Tony to fully digest the word. The name. Victor’s brow furrows slightly, a flash of anger and impatience and more pain visible in his eyes as he tries to speak again, repeat himself, but it finally clicks and Tony stops him before he starts.

“Strange?” He asks, putting a hand over Victor’s chest to still him. Doom seems to let out a breath and manages to relax somewhat, no longer trying to talk, so Tony takes that as confirmation. He nods shakily. “Stephen Strange. Okay. I can do that. One master of the mystic arts coming right up— _hey_. Hey, Doom, _stay with me_ —”

Doom's body goes limp in Tony’s arms, who curses up a storm as it happens, and his eyes slip shut. A breath leaves him in what seems like relief as he finally passes out of consciousness. Like he’s been holding on here as long as he could and now that Tony is here, now that help is coming… it was alright to let go. Tony doesn’t think about that too long, about that sort of trust that hasn’t ever been returned, just mentally sends a signal to call Strange. Tony begins speaking the second the line picks up, not even letting Stephen get a word in.

“Strange, it’s Tony and we’re going to have to skip the ‘you’re alive?’ for a minute. I need you in Latveria. _Now_.”

“Tony?” Strange’s voice sounds in his ear, shocked. Tony rolls his eyes. “You’re _alive_?”

“I said we’re skipping that, Stephen. Keep up. I’m alive, and I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Doom—” ~~_He saved me. This is my fault. He SAVED me._~~ Tony’s voice grows more insistent. “—so you need to get your ass here, right now, and _HELP_ him.”

There’s an explosion of light, then, that makes Tony flinch, curling over Victor protectively as they’re illuminated in the flash. A golden orange, warbling and volatile looking mass of energy appears in the center of the hall, and quickly a caped figure emerges. Silhouetted in the bright portal, Stephen Strange floats through, touching down on the flagstones. The energy behind him dissipates with a crack and Strange waves a hand. The hall erupts in candlelight, the candlesticks lining the hall flickering to life, and a glow filtering down from the high ceilings revealing chandeliers hanging above. Torches framing the throne burst with flame and Tony can finally see without digital help.

Tony’s helmet folds back as Strange approaches, and Tony can read the concern on his features, as he holds an arm aloft, hand gleaming with bright, mystical light. First it’s directed toward Tony, and he becomes distinctly reminded of his unfamiliar appearance, then Stephen’s eyes cast lower, toward Victor. Tony realizes that he’s positioned himself defensively over Doom and pulls back somewhat, relaxing, and his voice cracks unexpectedly as he speaks again, imploring:

“ _Help him._ ”

“What happened, Tony?” Strange asks, business-like and calm as he kneels on Victor’s other side. Stephen hovers one hand over Victor’s face, light flickering from it while the sorcerer mutters something under his breath, and Tony resists the irrational urge to slap it away. Where this protective compulsion is coming from, Tony doesn’t rightly know. Gratitude for his life, maybe, or perhaps it’s simply because Doom wears an armor with likeness to his own in some strange homage that Tony hasn’t quite come to understand, yet.

    ~~ _I rejected you. I distrusted you. I hated you. Why honor me? Why save ME?_~~

“I don’t know.” Tony answers truthfully. Facts, for the moment, he can handle. “Parker Robbins attacked a ship owned by SI, trying to force my board, who were on the ship, to hand over control of the company. We intervened — myself, Rhodey, Riri, Pepper… the gang was all there, really. Not Doom. I never — I mean, I didn’t exactly call him to come along for the ride. He showed up later with dozens of doombots and he… Well, he kind of saved the day. Something happened to Robbins, though. He wasn’t… himself. He turned into some creature kind of like…”

It clicks, then, precisely what Robbins’ strange appearance reminded him of. Tony snaps his fingers as he realizes, the metal of his gauntlets clacking awkwardly, and looks up at Stephen, startled.

“Like Whitney. He looked like Whitney when she was possessed by a demon.” He says, and the words alone make his gut twist uncomfortably. “And he was on me and my suit couldn’t handle the power he was outputting. It was frying everything and then — Doom grabbed him. Got him off of me before… I don’t know, Strange, before something _bad_. Then… that was it. They were gone. _Poof_. I don’t know what happened after that but when Friday picked up a huge surge of energy in Latveria I came here and—…”

Tony gestures toward Victor helplessly.

“Fate is a fickle mistress and she does so hate to be denied.” Strange mutters humorlessly and his brow is pinched with pity. “The wounds that a demon inflicts are wounds not only upon the flesh, but the soul. It binds one to that demon, to what torments they conjure. Such is the fate that Victor once suffered at the hands of Mephisto, when he was young.”

“What do you mean by that?” Tony asks, frustration bubbling up, though somehow he thinks he already knows the answer. The light in Strange’s hand dims and he pulls it back to his side. The blood that had hidden Victor’s wounds is cleared away, though they continue to bleed sluggishly, and Tony has to hold back the sickness that roils in his gut in response to the sight, as his mind can’t help but imagine the pain of such a thing and sends that awareness shuddering through his body.

“It means I can’t heal him.” Stephen admits, looking up at Tony apologetically. “But, I can ease his suffering. Help me move him, Tony. Get the armor off — there seem to be magical wards within that are disrupting me.”

Friday is able to make quick work of the armor, with just a little trial and error with the slight differences Doom had used in his own internal systems. He doesn’t use an AI in his suit, which both rankles and doesn’t surprise Tony. The nanites fold away after a moment, sliding off of his body and Tony’s breath hitches as he sees the damage further down along Victor’s neck. The undersuit he’s wearing is torn at the collar, but otherwise intact and Tony bites his cheek, forcing himself to focus on helping to move Victor, not the mangled features that keep drawing his eye.

Doom is by no means a small man, and though Tony isn’t weak, certainly not in the armor, it takes both he and Strange to carefully move his bulk through the halls toward a bedroom that Friday points out to them. Stephen lights up the room as they enter, flames flickering in candlesticks framing a large double door on the far wall open wide leading out to a balcony and on a simple chandelier hanging in the center of the room a few feet from the end of a large canopy bed. Tony himself has always been a more minimalist designer when it came to his own home, but the extravagant nature seems to feel right and not out of place or unnecessary here.

It is Doom, after all.

They lay Victor atop the bed, blood staining silken pillowcases and Tony has to step away. The uncomfortable twisting in his stomach drawing him to stand in the threshold of the large doors leading to the balcony to take a deep breath of cool early morning air. Light flashes across the stone from Strange’s magic, behind, then again, brighter and Tony’s eyes snap to the horizon where a bright strike of lightning streaks down from blackened clouds. A drop of water hits Tony’s cheek where he stands, half outside, then another, a slow drizzle beginning as thunder rumbles closer, shaking the floor beneath his feet, and the dim light of dawn peaks over the horizon where the clouds break. Sorcerous words are muttered from the bedside, uncomfortably alien, in Stephen’s even and familiar tone. Tony stops himself from glancing back and steps fully onto the balcony and into the gentle rain.

Seven hours he’s been awake. Only that. Seven hours ago he had crawled out of his own tomb, shaking and hallucinating, confused and lost. Unsure of what was real, unable to find a sequence to his own memories, a logic in them. Reality had broken through over the course of hours curled up on the floor, hiding in his old armor, the only thing that felt safe and familiar. Now reality is just as confusing as the nonsense that had filled his head then.

Victor von Doom has been baffling and frustrating Tony since the moment he showed his pretty face, but this, here… Tony can’t reconcile the image of Doom in his mind with the one of the man who would do this. It’s still  _Doom_ , and Tony could never let himself forget that or all that it entails.  Every horror and every monstrous deed, every betrayal and manipulation.

He hasn’t, still, and the knowledge that that is Doom laying in agony, having made such a sacrifice for Tony’s life, forces an uneasy shift in perspective. Tony knows too well the long and complicated road of redemption. A person can change, he knows this, Stephen Strange knows this. Months ago, Stephen had reinforced to him what he already knew: that if Doom was genuine, if he really was turning over a new leaf… the potential for good was immeasurable.

“You seem troubled.” Friday’s voice comes softly over the sound of the pattering rain. “Your heartbeat is erratic and you are cracking the railing.”

Tony looks down at his armored hands gripping the stone, cracks spider-webbing out from around his fingers. He takes a deep breath of the cold, wet air and lets go. Another flash of lightning cuts across the sky, thunder rumbling behind it and Tony grimaces at the feel of the rain on his bare head, only just now really noticing it.

“Sorry.” Tony mutters. To Friday or to the stone, he doesn’t know.

“May I make an observation?” Friday continues, undeterred by his lack of actual engaging. Her head and torso are projected out just past the balcony, hovering in the air. Tony scrubs a hand over his head, sighing.

“Sure, why not?” He answers, leaning on the balcony, propping his chin in one hand and meeting the eyes of her hologram.

“You’re thinking too much.” She says bluntly, and Tony’s brow furrows in irritation. “Historically, you have shown a certain pragmatism when it comes to protecting your technology, protecting the world from your technology. You trust only a select few with the things you create. However, when it comes to your own physical and psychological well-being, you have never been so cautious. You trust people. You give people power over you. It has not always ended well. In fact, my collected memories of all previous incarnations of the code that makes up this Artificial Intelligence shows an eighty-nine-point-seven percent rate at which people have betrayed and hurt you.”

“Wow, Fri, you are really nailing the pep talk—”

“Yet you persist.” Friday cuts him off with a sharp look. “You want to trust people. You want to have faith in people. It is a very… human trait, as far as I can gather. You have been more prepared for the possible eventuality of betrayal, over the years, but you have not become intensely paranoid or introverted as one might. You have trusted those you have no reason to. You have trusted villains and you have trusted ex-lovers, people who have lied to you in the past, people who have deeply hurt you, good intentions or bad.”

“That’s really very personal, Friday, jesus—”

“For some reason, Victor von Doom is different.” She says. “You want to trust him, yet you won’t take that leap, this time. Not unless forced in dire circumstance. Why?”

“Because it’s Doom!” Tony almost shouts, then snaps his mouth shut, looking back inside. Strange still stands over Victor’s bed, energy glowing in his hands, eyes alight with the same force, intensely focused on his task. Tony lowers his voice, looking back at Friday. “You know the shit he’s done, Friday. You know why. This is me learning from my mistakes. This isn’t his second chance, Friday, it’s his twentieth — hell, his hundredth — Hasn’t Reed been here before? Haven’t we _all_ been here before? Haven’t we all _learned_ by now? I’ve trusted Doom before, too, I’m sure you can pick up that from your old memory banks, too.”

“As I recall, it ended amicably.”

“Sure, _after_ the betrayal. _Twice_.”

“A lesson you have learned a hundred times, as you say, but not only from Doom.  It has not deterred you before.” Friday insists. “It is… honestly baffling. I don’t understand it, and likely never will. You programmed this version of me to keep you human, Tony, to remind you of the things that matter more than the work. People rarely earn the leap you take with them. _He_ saved your life.”

“What happens when he wakes up, Fri? When he realizes _what_ he sacrificed for that life? For _me_?” Tony’s voice cracks at the end, his expression wrecked and he knows it. Friday’s features change slightly, processing his words, maybe, prying logic from them. She’s silent for a moment and Tony leans on the railing, his face in his hands.

“I don’t know, Tony.” Friday’s voice comes from his side with frustrating uncertainty. “I think it matters that you are here. I think what happens next… depends on you.”

“No pressure.” Tony breathes out, his hand dropping to the balcony as he looks over the steep slopes that lead down toward the town below. The rain still lazily falls, dark clouds hovering above and stretching out into the distant West, juxtaposed against the light creeping over the Eastern horizon with the rising sun. His body can hardly tell what time zone he’s supposed to be in anyway, but Tony can feel his energy fading fast. Confusion and fear drag him down, draining him as he tries to fight off the wave of exhaustion.

“Anthony.” Tony’s back snaps straight, and he turns around toward the balcony doors. Strange stands there, just inside and out of the rain. He looks exhausted, the lines on his face pronounced and his expression tired. “I’ve done all I can.” He says, glancing back inside.

Tony can see Victor laying on the bed, still and almost peaceful. The most dangerous man in the universe. The man who saved his life. Unconscious and in pain; vulnerable. Tony doesn’t notice Strange move closer until the man is in front of him, reaching out to place a hand upon his shoulder and blocking the view inside. Tony’s eyes snap up to Stephen’s face where the sorcerer’s expression is full of sympathy. As Tony meets his eyes, Strange gives a hesitant smile.

“You look terrible, Tony.” He says, matter-of-fact, and it startles a laugh from Tony. His lips settle in a small grin as he shakes his head, chuckling lightly.

“Yeah, I’m thinking I should fire my stylist.” He jokes, reaching up to scrub his hand over the top of his head. “He clearly missed the mark this time.”

“Oh, what a shame. I liked Mylo.” Stephen returns. He lets go of Tony’s shoulder, reaching up. His hand hovers at the side of Tony’s head. “I think I might be able to do a better job, though. My rates are considerably lower despite the height of my education.”

A flicker of distaste crosses Tony’s features as he realizes what Strange is suggesting. Magic. His expression tightens, his lips thin and in response Strange only raises a brow. Tony reads the tiredness in his features, though. That he would even offer, despite how drained he already is, and such a frivolous thing at that, bleeds a little of the tension from Tony. He bites the inside of his lip and shrugs.

“I’d hate for Professor X to think I was moving in on his look.” He says, his tone easy and not belying his discomfort. The first sensation of magic against his skin makes him flinch, but Stephen reaches out to gently hold him steady with a hand on his shoulder. Tony screws his eyes shut, nose wrinkling. He sniffles a little and wants to reach up to scratch at his jaw at the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of hair growing too quickly there. When the feeling fades and Strange lets go, Tony immediately reaches up and scrubs at his face.

“Oh, God, that’s awful. Never do that again.” He complains and moves past Strange to look in the slightly reflective glass windows on the door to the balcony. In the faint reflection he can see that his hair isn’t as long as it had been, but it’s there and despite the itch, Tony feels just a little more comfortable in his skin. His beard isn’t shaped, but grown enough to be groomed. Tony looks back at Strange who’s appraising him with an amused look.

“Thanks, though.” Tony says, belatedly.

“You’re welcome.” Strange replies, as if he’d been waiting. He glances back inside, toward Doom, and Tony follows his gaze, his gut twisting again and the lightness of the moment lost. “I have responsibilities that require my attention. I cannot stay. I must… rest and be ready.”

“Thank you.” Tony says, more firmly, turning to look at Strange. “Not a lot of people would have answered that call. He asked for you, specifically, but… still. You didn’t have to come.”

“I told you what I believe, Tony.” Strange shakes his head. “It hasn’t changed. I hope that this hasn’t changed it. If it does, if it _can_ … then maybe there was no real hope to begin with, and you and I were just optimistic fools.”

“Speak for yourself.” Tony grumbles and Strange smiles at him oddly.

“Good night, Tony.” He says with finality. “Or, good morning, as it were.”

There’s a flash of light and Strange is gone, leaving Tony alone in the light drizzle of rain. He stands there a moment longer before finally stepping inside. The slight outside chill permeates the chamber from the doors hanging open for so long and Tony pauses. The armor folds away from him, reforming at his side.

“Friday, keep watch.” He orders, and the suit nods, stepping back out onto the balcony. Tony pulls the doors closed, leaving a slight gap. The room is dimly lit with candlelight that flickers across the figure lying in the bed. Tony hesitates at the doors, then swallows thickly and crosses the room to the bedside.

The blood is gone from his face and the pillow beneath his head is clean. All that’s left are the red, angry wounds that pull apart his face. It doesn’t look much better than before, but Victor’s face is relaxed in sleep and Tony only hopes that what Strange was able to do eased his pain enough. Tony’s face pinches with guilt and sympathy. Doom has been an enemy for so long. A sometimes ally, sure, but an enemy and a pain in his ass more often than not. More than that. Not just an enemy but a menace. A threat greater than most others. A terror. A monster.

Yet Tony finds nothing but sympathy in this moment. An inner conflict, perhaps, but won by the part of Tony that hates to watch a man suffer, that struggles to understand someone suffering for him.

“I knew you had a thing for me, Doom, but you could have just sent flowers.” He mutters, shaking his head. He watches Victor’s face for a reaction, for any hint of a twitch belying consciousness, but there is nothing but stillness in his features. He frowns a little. “That was hilarious, Vic. Peak comedy. Show some appreciation.”

He doesn’t expect a response, but is still disappointed not to get one. Tony glances quickly around the room, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Does he leave? There’s a penthouse full of people waiting for him back home, friends and family he sometimes forget that he has, eager to see him alive and well. Does he stay here, instead, to wait by the bedside of a wounded ally who has been more monster than man over the last two decades? Someone who may very well despise the sight of him on waking?

His eyes pass over two wing-backed chairs set with a low table between them, in front of a wall of bookcases that reach for the ceiling. There sits a stack of books on the table and Tony can’t help but wonder how such a detail was crafted by magic desperately coalesced for protection. The topmost book bears a familiar title.

_The Once and Future King_

Tony looks back toward Doom, guilt and sympathy twisting in his chest with anxious fear. Tony swears, loudly, as his choice is made. He all but stomps across the room toward the chairs and swipes the book off the top of the stack, dropping it onto the green velvet cushion seat of one. He grabs the chair by the back and drags it, noisily, to the bedside. As he brings it to a stop there, not too close, but not far, tilted slightly away, Tony glares over the top of it at Victor, willing him to stir.

Still as the grave.

Tony sighs, and lets his tension fall away some. He steps around the chair, picking up the book, and he sits. He pulls out his phone to send a message to Rhodey, letting him know that everything is fine, but he won't be back.  'Something came up, nothing to worry about, just a Thing.' He types, vaguely, and ignores all attempts from his friend to get him to elaborate.  Leaning back into the wing of the chair, Tony cracks the spine and begins to read the tale he’s read a hundred times before.

Maybe the ending will be different this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doom will eventually have actual words to say, don't worry.
> 
> ~ thanks to doctorxdoom on tumblr for the "should have just bought me flowers" line ~


End file.
